Silence

silence

words flutter around on flippant wings of thought

brutally beating the air in attempt to rise high

the violent impact of selfish soaring

forces down others willing for existence

recognition

inclusion.

moths to a flame

enveloped by whiteness

the view is clear and clean

with the turn of a gaze

lies the ability to see and unsee

obscure and disregard

all unpleasing elements other than

the clarity of light

blinded by white toxicity

furious scamperings fall outside

the realm of comprehensibility

for the swirl of insects above

but in that darkness the shadows creep

and eyes adjust to blackness

conjoining and collecting

gaining prominence and strength

independent and immune to the

fear of the dark.

drowning in the high white tide

I gasp for breath, seeking the courage to speak

I raise my hand, willing some recognition

I utter a question, a complaint, a reflection

but you’re already thinking

of how to shut me down.

drowning in the high white tide

my experience is made irrelevant

or touted as representative

of many brown bodies

i only know extremes

like the casual alternation

between feigned acceptance

(as long as i’m articulate and polite)

and personalized attack

so i stop gasping for breath

i quell my courage with a rising sea of anger

i submerge my hand in the raging waters

allowing the tides to take me

overcome me

flush me out

because i’m nothing more than a statistic

or success story

a number on a page, nameless, faceless

buried beneath the prose of another white savior

hoping that their verbiage masks

their lack of inclusion

but what if i became a mermaid instead of drowning?

what if, somewhere beneath the surface,

i’m watching and waiting

keeping track of your utterances

like dots upon a graph

diminishing you to a black spot

upon a sea of white paper?

unfair! you cry. unproductive! you scream

dejection and critique by the flipped situation felt

where you’re not in control

and you’re suddenly lumped into the consuming white mass

it’s funny everything you notice

in the silence beneath the high white tide.

white noise, a poem without rhythm

white noise

a record spinning

trapped on repeat

uttering, stuttering

sputtering

requesting assistance

feigning inability

white noise without substance

da ba doooo

rhythmic interjection

the record skips

be ba da-be bop

singing, syncopating in the distance

the record slips

Ba da boom?

da da-da boom?

“This is not your song”

a voice calls back

“Find your own tune, train your voice”

the record shakes

then angrily cycling like a whirlwind

until…unintentionally…it flips

silence

scraaaaaatch-----

be da be doom? ba da boom?

the record plays

da da doom, be da boom

waiting, listening

the record ponders its beat

“Maybe, someday” the voice says “you might be able to play backup.”